Hard to Forget
by serenitymeimei
Summary: Post 3x01. Myka finds something unexpected while getting settled back in at the warehouse.


**Disclaimer:** If Warehouse 13 were mine, H.G. and Myka would have at least kissed by now... just sayin'. (see profile for a REAL disclaimer)

**A/N: **Written for the fourth annual International Day of Femslash!

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><p>Myka wasn't quite sure why, but the moment that she slipped into her old room at Leena's she felt a strange ball of tension begin forming deep in the pit of her stomach. She'd missed this place, her family and friends, and the comfort that the warehouse brought her. She was glad to be back, and even more glad that Agent Jinks didn't seem to want to interfere or take her place. It was a relief.<p>

But, as she looked around her room, at her belongings all in the same place that she'd left them, that worry gnawing away at her somehow managed to transform into weary emptiness. It was hard to name, exactly what that feeling was, and it only hit her the second that her gaze fell upon a button up shirt draped across the back of her computer chair. It was innocent enough, sure, but her blood suddenly ran cold and her throat tightened as she remembered exactly who had left it there.

Helena.

Sighing softly, she watched with an almost detached air as she walked toward it, her body craving to touch the crisp, white blouse even as her mind screamed at her not to. She couldn't be weak, couldn't fall into another trap. She wouldn't survive. Yet, her traitorous hand still hovered over it as she slowed to a stop. It couldn't be a coincidence that it was still there. Everyone had seen her wear it enough to know that it wasn't Myka's, that it didn't belong, but H.G.'s room had been cleared out not long after she'd been taken into custody, every trace of her removed from the B&B, so if Leena and Mrs Frederick saw fit to leave it with her, she wasn't going to argue.

Finally, her fingertips made contact, sliding slowly, almost tenderly, across the soft material. It was Helena's favorite, well worn, thin, with tiny black buttons. She'd forgotten it there three nights before they'd flown to Egypt searching for Warehouse 2 on a particularly balmy evening in which they'd spent sprawled across her bed reading separate books simply enjoying each other's company until the house went silent and they were the only ones left awake. Myka lifted it, hugging it closely to her body, feeling guilty as a small smile flickered at the corners of her mouth at the faint smell of sandalwood and lavender swirling gently around her.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Myka felt her eyes tear up. That was the first time that their harmless flirting- yes, _flirting_, something that she'd finally been able to reluctantly admit to herself, maybe even accept- had turned into something questionably more. That time it was more than a gentle touch of their hands, a flirty smile, or heated gaze, no, this exchange had felt different. She remembered the way that their conversation had come to an abrupt stop the moment that H.G. started undressing just enough to get comfortable, the days humidity and heat taking a toll on all of them, and how they'd both known the exact reason for the healthy blush that had reddened the apples of her cheeks. She suspected that Helena had purposely worn a silky camisole that day in anticipation of that very moment, remembering the way that it made her heart skip a beat and her eyes widen, unable to look away when a saucy smirk formed on the other woman's face as she slowly unbuttoned her shirt. However, as the older woman had crawled on top of the bed to join her, taking an offered book out of Myka's grasp, it was the way that their bodies had leaned together, migrating toward one another without thinking, that had made the difference. They'd forgone the usual amount of space left between them, giving into the urge to be close to each other just that once, and it had left her heart singing well past page fifty of her novel. It's what made her certain that if Helena had tried to kiss her that night, she would have let her.

Myka sighed and leaned back, staring up at a familiar ceiling, trying to forget, but forgetting was hard once you've been hurt so deeply.

"_Please, think about what I've said."_

A tear slipped silently from the corner of her eye, past her temple and into her newly straightened hair, the now balled up shirt still tight in her grasp.

She wouldn't think about anything else.

**End.**


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